


Who the Heck is James?

by theladymia



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Bucky just moved into town, Bullying, M/M, Steve has never swore in his life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:53:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladymia/pseuds/theladymia
Summary: Steve's had a pretty tame high school career, and the emergence of some dude named Barnes right at the end of his senior year isn't going to screw that up now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mysticspectrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticspectrum/gifts).



> wow thank you SO much for reading this holy SHIT  
> this is my first public fic ever so PLEASE give me criticism!! i would appreciate it very much  
> i also just wanna tell everyone that i don't have an editor (im not gonna use the word beta that's fuckin weird) yet so if there's any mistakes then it's on me, but i'm being as careful as i possibly can so there probably won't be any. if there is, it's probably a mistake with the actual form, and not the content.  
> anyway my tumblr is theladymia so if you wanna tell me abt this fic over there u can do so :))) again wow thanks for reading what the FUCK

“Hey-o, sunshine!”

A flash of red waves, a sudden air of paprika, and clinking chains accompanied by worn leather. This trio is identified as Natasha before I even see her face.

      “Hey, Nat,” I chime back, “good morning!”

      We’re in the parking lot, all of us, headed towards Door 17, which is the door that all the students have to use to get into Shield High in the mornings. It's a pain in the rear, definitely, because there's a door much closer to the parking lot, and it gets cold upstate real quick as the year moves on. I can't recall the amount of times I’ve waited in the driver’s seat of my Ford until I absolutely  _ had _ to get to class so I could avoid the cold weather for as long as I could.

      “Morning! You still got my book?” She skips a little as she slows down, positioning herself between myself and her boyfriend, Bruce, who’s groggily glued to his phone.

      “Oh-- yeah, one second…” I swing my backpack around from behind me to grab the book I borrowed from her: a well-annotated copy of  _ The Learners _ by Chip Kidd.  _ She must have actually liked this one. _

      “Thanks.” She tucks it away into her bright red, transparent bag. She's always picked out interesting backpacks at the start of the year.

      “Hey, you didn't get bath water all over it, right?” Bruce bumps Nat with his elbow as they both start to laugh a bit.

      “Aw, screw you!” He’ll never let that go, and I’ll never tell him that I still take baths and read from time to time.

      When we reach it, I hold the door open for them while shivering. I've never liked the wintertime. Everyone falls victim to seasonal depression, and it bums me out. I don't fall for the winter blues-- well, at least, I don't think I do-- so I do my best to be cheery to everyone I meet. When they say things like, “A smile will change someone’s day,” they ain’t lying. I'm shooting to win the positivity superlative for my senior year.

     The heater placed conveniently by the door blasts us with warm, comforting air, and we all have a collective sigh of relief before we give our parting statements to each other. Nat and Bruce head off to their first class, and I go to the lunchroom to get my breakfast.

      The cool thing about Shield High is that it's sponsored by a lot of parties, but it's still a public school. Something like that in New York is real rare, and we’re all grateful for it. One of the perks is that students get free breakfast here, and the food is actually pretty good. They'll have something hot prepared each morning-- it rotates between one of those biscuit breakfast sandwiches, french toast, and breakfast pizza-- and then they have a big section of fruit, cereal bars, and pre-packaged muffins if the hot bar doesn't suit your fancy. I grab my usual (an apple cinnamon flavored muffin and a Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal bar; yeah, maybe I do like to eat seasonal foods!) and head to the register.

      “Good morning, Steve!” The lunch lady, Rita, rasps to me. She’s got a stoma. Everyone refers to her as the stoma lady, but her name tag is decorated so cutely and her name is very readable. I wonder if she did that on purpose.

      “Morning, Rita. I like those shoes.” She was wearing a real bright blue pair of Reebok's.

      She scans my ID. “Thank you, darlin’. Have a good day, okay?”

      I take my tray to an unoccupied table and plug my earbuds in.  _ Today’s a ‘chill playlist’ type of day,  _ I think as the Spotify logo displays itself while the app loads. The weather is grey and comforting, but it knows that it's unwelcome. Wind will flush it out, if we're lucky.  _ Yeah, what a pipe dream. _

     I press shuffle on the playlist, and take out my sketchbook. I liked that idea: pipedream. I start off drawing the eyebrows. I always start with the eyebrows. They're fun to draw. Around these particularly bushy brows, I create a man; he tells me that he’s Middle-Eastern, old. Weathered. And I tell him that he’s a smoker, but he prefers the classic pipe-and-tobacco approach. He rebuttals with “Fine, but only if you make the smoke into something cool.”

_    Alright, fine _ . The smoke cloud harnesses a spring scene: two children, androgynous in silhouette, playing around the base of a willow tree. The figures turn out better than I expected them to when they're finished. I decide to add some background instead of more subjects before I mess it up.

      I’m in the middle of adding a leather armchair for our smoker to be sitting on when the bell rings.  _ I’ll be back for you, buddy. _ The sketchbook closes with a dull clap, and I messily get up from the bench, not without banging my meatless shin on the metal leg of the too-big-for-Rogers contraption.

      “ _ Ahh-- crap…”  _ The skin already feels sensitive under the jeans. It’s gonna bruise, if the area that got dinged isn't bruised already. Putting pressure on the limb while I walk to the gym doesn't help too much, either, but nobody ever got stronger by laying around and waiting for the pain to go away, right?

  


***

  


     Loud squeaks and dull booms assault my ears. I hate this god-danged room. I've never had a single good memory here. The clock reads 12:37.  _ Only 8 minutes left, and I’m free. Only 3 minutes until we get to change out of our gym clothes. _

     “I’m open! I’m open-- over here, dumbass!”

     “I can’t! Pay attention, dude!”

_ Oh, fuck off. _

     “Hey, pass it to Rogers!” Two loud guffaws. “Yeah, he's open!”

      I turn to look at the guy, and all of the blood that’s rushed to my face has surely formed an angry expression by now. “Come on, man.”

      “Hey, no one ever got better by sittin’ on their ass!” And then, a much less friendly flash of red flies my way.

      “Alright, that’s it--” I catch myself muttering as I prepare to slap the crap out of this ball. It soars in a perfect arc that ends at my head, and my hand just barely-- yes!-- hits it. And… instantly, one… two, three, four. Four bounces on the ground, inches from my feet.

      And then laughter. A lot of it.

      Some people are doubled over, holding their stomach. Some are shaking their head, jabbing a thumb at my direction while looking at the chuckling group of girls on the bleachers. Coach Ramsey manages to ignore the situation while watching it unfold.  _ No shock there _ .

     The guy who called me out identifies himself by approaching me-- Schmidt, a junior that I have English with, too. He's a smart guy, but he’s only smart when he wants to be, when it benefits him (only in the short run, of course). “What's the problem, Pip?”

       “I've had enough, man. You gotta tell me ahead of time when I'm up.”

       “I told you at least 10 seconds before your pomeranian-sized paw hit the ball, Steve.”

       My chest heaves up and down, but of course, I’m the only one who can tell. I mutter-- somehow, I’ve gotten close enough for muttering distance to be audible-- to him: “You know that’s not what I meant…”

       He presses the dodgeball against me (oh, no, nevermind, that's just his insanely taut chest), and then his voice snakes out from his mouth to sneer “What’d you mean, then, Rogers? Huh?” I didn't mean to give him enough time to keep talking, but he managed anyway. “Come on, we know you ain't built for this. Go on, sit over with the girls,” he leans into my ear, pressing hot air into my neck without any consent, “you all can go ‘n talk about your guy crushes.”

       I spit over his shoulder to try and make a statement. He ignores it. 

       Instead, he leans over me, towering over my peripheral to look at my behind. “I mean, look at that ass. Compared to the rest of you…? You're not doing a very good job of hiding your secrets.”

      Before it could tell my brain, my arm dives towards his nose. It collides with the area between his nose and lips, only grazing the tip of his nostrils. Not my target, but I sure did feel the teeth pressing against my knuckles. I leave my fist out there for a moment before sheathing. He looks back at me, and for a second, I debated running. But then, he started laughing.

      “Oh, man! Wow!  _ Look at that!” _ He screams the end of his taunt, and the coach finally finished jogging his fat rear over to us. 

       “Rogers-- detention. Go to the nurse, Schmidt.”

       He keeps looking at me while he responds to Ramsey. “I'm good, coach… I’m good.”

       Ramsey rolls his eyes, sufficiently making me feel small, and walks off from our conflict. We space from each other, mutually understanding that another move would land us both in useless punishment. I didn't dispute the detention. I wasn't looking for a fight. Not yet.

***

  


       I had a hard time finding the detention room after the day was over. The rest of the day turned out fine-- good, in fact. I forgot about the conflict after a few periods. But when I overheard a conversation about detention in the hallway, it all came rushing back.

      I turn on a dime. “Hey-- where is detention today?”

      “A102, like always.”

      “Alright, thanks.”

***

      The A wing had a 101 and a 103, right across from each other. So where the heck was 102? That's when a girl,  _ hopefully in heels,  _ bumped into me while headed to an unlabeled door. She chimed an apology before entering and turning the light on.

        I followed after her and looked around. No adult. Not yet, at least. I took a seat closest to the heater in the ceiling and checked my phone.

  


**13 texts from Mom**

  


      Without even reading them all, I knowingly respond with  **I’m staying after for help today.** The little ‘read’ notification pops up right away, and three little dots jumped as Mom decrypted the iPhone’s keyboard in order to respond.  **Good boy!**

       A security guard makes herself known by dropping a manila notepad on the desk up front. The five or six kids that had entered since then all stood up simultaneously and headed towards it. I joined.

       It turned out to be a sign-in sheet. I glanced over the names as I wrote. Maria Ortega. Abraham Rodriguez. Emily Soto. DeAndre Bell. James Barnes. Alex Bronson.

_ Who the heck is James? _

       I look around the room. Shield High has a population of 2,000, but I know all of the upperclassmen in some way or another. I had never heard of a Barnes.

       Emily sat, cross-legged, in the seat closest to the door. DeAndre sat across the room, in a desk facing Emily. Maria sat in the center of the room, and Abraham and Alex were near the window, quietly chatting.

       Who I assumed to be James I finally spotted in the corner. He wore all black, a sweater and jeans, except for the red All-Star Converse. He had that hairstyle all the boys had lately, where the sides are shaved short, but the top is long enough to put into a man bun. It didn't look ridiculous on him. I think he had a piercing on his eyebrow, but I couldn't tell if it was a birthmark or not from this distance. I stopped wearing glasses in middle school when they were broken at least once monthly. He looks up, towards the clock, before the guard speaks.

       “Is there any newcomers? Do I gotta repeat the rules?”

       I rose my hand. “Me, miss.”

       She rose her eyebrows, maybe in shock? “Hm. Well, basically, you can use your phone, do homework,  listen to music, and go to the bathroom, but you can't talk to anyone else. Tell me if you have to go. Okay?”

       I nod, and pull out my phone and earbuds. While untangling them, I push the cover of my sketchbook open with my elbow, narrowly avoiding a paper cut.

       Barnes. I haven't heard that last name before. James Barnes sounds like the name of a spy. Maybe it's the similarity between him and Bond. He shares the sharp jaw, the groggy, heavily-lidded dark eyes. I'd imagine that he shares the voice, or at least some aspects of it. I’d imagine he’d look great in a well-fitted tux, with a matching black tie, and a dark, but not black-dark undershirt… with metallic buttons and cufflinks to match… with the outline of a pistol pressing from underneath the fabric of his blazer. And… a cigarette. He’s holding it between his pointer and thumb, like a joint. Like a man. It’s almost completely smoked down to his fingertips. No, his shoes have to be shinier than that. And his hair-- he should have it slicked back. And his lips are thinner than that, right? Right--

       He catches me looking up at him for reference. He flicks the heads of his eyebrows up, as if he were saying “Really?” Why say that? I don’t know you. Why are you already so friendly with me? You say ‘really’ as if this is something that’s common, something you tease me about all the time. Oh, Stevie, put the pencil down. We aren’t hanging out for you to draw me, when you can surely draw me from memory in your own time.

       You’re right, James. Sorry about that.

***

  



	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve aces a test, and gets a reward.

     “Ma? You home yet?”

     Useless question. I heard the cheese bubbling and I could smell the chopped rosemary from the door. My backpack drops to the floor with a dull thud joined by metallic, gentle clanking as the zipperheads tap against their track.

     “Yes, baby bear! How was school?”

     I head up the stairs to greet her-- we live in a townhouse, so the kitchen’s upstairs and the bedrooms are downstairs-- and answer her question. “Good, good. I got the help I needed.”

     “Good to hear. Any homework left over?” She fits the question in just before kissing me.

     “Just some studying.” One truth outdoes a lie, right? Whatever.

     “Well, I’d get started on that. I’ll be cooking for awhile tonight. I wanna get this right…” She says, as she turns back to the bubbling pot on the stove.

     She’s right. My bag has three practice tests in it, because of course, three of my four core classes all have tests on the same day. I’ll be alright, though, because the rest of my classes are in real simple spots. I have no quarrels with my art or english classes. At least, not yet. I suspect I won't find an issue with my art class, since it has two prerequisites, and is therefore for serious art students, and is therefore a class of five.

     I grab up an apple before heading down to my bag, and then to my room.  _ Christ, I need to stop carrying all these extra books with me. I gotta set a reminder to ask the front desk where my locker is. Haven't touched it since they had us all open the locks at least once in front of them in freshman year. _

     Sitting down at my desk chair at the end of every day is one of my favorite parts of the day. I have six, actually: eating breakfast with my mom, seeing my buddies in the parking lot, the bell ringing after gym is over, talking to Mr. Clarke during art, sitting at my desk chair, and then moving from my chair to my bed. Check, check, check, check, check. Just a little longer before it isn’t too weirdly early to go to bed. I might as well fill that time with some studying.

     The math practice test took the longest, but it was the most gratifying to complete. In my senior year, most of the work done in my classes is done via computer, but in math, it's all pen and paper. It’s the only thing that’s fun  _ and _ easy in math, and I love it. Finding new ways to hold the pencil to create different marks, using speed in conjunction with pressure to create different thicknesses, all of it is like an art to me. I guess it isn't just art to only me, though. Calligraphy is a thing. My desires, though, they rarely stay in the form of letters and numbers. I have no self control, and what’s supposed to be the curve in a five or an eight becomes a tight coil of hair or a ripple in water.

_      Aaaand… done.  _ No, not a math problem. A drawing. A drawing of a figure wearing bulky, utilitarian clothes. He’s not completely bent over, but his spine is hunched. His hair, chin-length and dark, covers everything but a centered sliver of his face. Of course this wasn't my intention, but it’s definitely missing something. I draw a short cylinder suspended from his lips, and add a filter to its front. With the graphite on the side of my palm, I create a smoke cloud, and call the piece finished. Whatever, I always pass math and I never study.

     Okay. History. Specifically, roman history. Thankfully, a multiple choice practice test. Just gotta figure out, with each question, what answers are definitely wrong, and my crazy luck will take me the rest of the way.

     Roman history is so cool. We’re specifically learning about the culture through writings from different social classes, and the coolest part is from this dominus, the male head of household in a family who owns gladiators and slaves, who wants to be more successful. He writes about how much he wants to rise in class, and how he hopes his wife respects him. There's a part that really interests me, where he goes on and on about this gladiator and how everyone called him the God of the Arena. He even says “All of the women want his cock, and all of the men want his respect. I think the lines blur there, between the sexes.” It’s not the quote in specific that rouses me, no, I’m not like most teenage boys. I just find it interesting that he recognizes the man as a slave and still believes that free men want his respect. I wonder if he wanted it, or maybe even got it. I wonder if he was a good man or not.

     The practice test was finished before I even realized it _. _ I’ve always felt good after finishing history assignments. I guess history always comes naturally to me. Physics, however… the physics practice test can wait for now. I’ve worked hard enough, and I’ll work even better if I take a little break. 

_ Bzzt. _

**1 text from Natasha**

Enclosed: a screenshot of a tweet from a man named Pakulu Papito, saying “Emergoncy! I just steal ur woman lol”, and then a follow-up directly from Nat.  **me @ mother earth**

My phone clicks as I press the simulated keys.  **I don’t understand your jokes, ever.**

**I don’t particularly think that that was a joke? I just. Thought of it**

Her typing always perturbs me. Whenever she should be using an ellipsis, she uses a period and then starts a new sentence. Sure, when read, it still elicits a pause that a comma would, but it’s not right.

**I think everything you type is a joke.**

      Enclosed: another photo. This time, a photo of a particularly ugly chihuahua with its mouth ajar, crooked fangs covered partly by its black lip. See, sometimes she can be funny. She makes that face, that exact face, when someone insults her, and she can’t come up with a rebuttal. I wonder if she did that on purpose, or if she just opened up her photo library and pressed the first meme she saw. I've seen her do that before.

I decide not to respond, and instead opt for my last favorite part of the day: moving from the chair to my bed. Another thing that stinks about winter is that even if the heater’s working, everything is cold. Porcelain, granite, laminated wood, stainless steel, and worst of all, cotton. My bed rejects me violently: I fall into it, open arms, with wrists and bare chest first to hit the blankets. The bed reminds me of the season and chills me a few layers deep, enduring my fetal position underneath extra blankets from the drawer underneath me. Thankfully, the drawer is small and closes well enough to keep those blankets warm, so my suffering will be cut down a bit more. _ If only I could get a little bit of fat, or, God bless me, some  _ muscle _ , I won’t need extra blankets. _

      Maybe, too, that drawer is warm because of its other contents. A bottle of fragrance-free lotion and a small rag, only disturbed from its resting place from a heated, sweaty version of myself. ‘ _ Heated?’ Who are you kidding, bud? No fat, no muscle, no body heat. _

_ Shut it, _ I argue back, while grabbing the bottle.

 

***

“Alright, you know the rules. No phones, no notes, no books. All of it goes on the floor. Number 2 pencil only. Write your name and the date on the top right corner, and…”

      My scantron’s been filled out long before she even began to explain it. We’ve heard these rules over and over since freshman year. Sure, some teachers have particular rules, or they have none at all, but I have the feeling that it helps them out significantly when  _ all _ of those little fields up top are filled out properly. They just don't want to put the pressure on us to do it all.

      We have some great teachers here. I’m lucky enough to have good relationships with even the toughest ones, and that includes Mrs. Barnshaw. She’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. She got her master’s in Roman History specifically at Yale two years ago, and then she has some “lower-level” degrees (those are her words-- she’s too humble) in other, more broad history topics. Other kids say she’s full of herself, doesn’t answer questions, doesn't actually teach, and a bunch of other smack, but none of that’s true. Those kids don't put effort or love into their work. They see it as a necessity, and not as a privilege. If only they knew that around 10 percent of the world is uneducated. I learned that the hard way on a church mission in 2015, where I spent a summer in Sierra Leone. God, that was… tough to see.

_ Hey! Focus. _

      The head of household is usually… C, the dominus. The tale of Spartacus is… B, most likely falsified in some form. Slaves were seen as… D, all of the above. No, E, none of the above...

      Zippers start whirring open and papers shuffle as the clock nears 10:15. I was the third to finish the test today. I can never decide whether or not I want to be the first or last to finish a test. Being quick may show that the test was easy, but it also might be the reason someone gets some questions wrong. Turning the test in last means yours will get graded first, and therefore with the most accuracy and detail, but then you don't get the 15-minute nap after you finish. I did well on this one regardless, though. The practice test was a carbon copy of the real thing.

       “Alright, turn in the scantron and your test booklet up here in separate piles, and then we’ll be starting Chapter 2 next week--” The bell interrupts him. “Have a good weekend, guys.”

       The mass of brown and brunette heads raises from sitting height to standing height, and heads towards the door. I join it, and look at my phone, where nothing but the dog in sunglasses on my wallpaper looks back at me. I'm alright with that.  _ Hey, buddy. _

       Wow, that smells good. What is that? “Steve. How’d you do?”

       “Hey. I predict a 93. You?”

       “Probably four out of five.” She starts skipping down the hall, and I follow her. Nat did her hair in my favorite way. It’s too short to get everything in a ponytail, so there's a layer on the back of her neck that hangs loose.

       “Nice. You feel better about MLA formatting now?”

       “Yes! Thank you. I know I got the points for that this time.”

       “Of course.” I put my phone back in my pocket, since I hadn't been looking at it for awhile. “Lunch today? Or no?”

       “No, I’m trying to lose weight before homecoming.”

       I roll my eyes. “You weigh, like, 100 pounds. You're like a fairy.”

       “Pfft! I wish.” We stop in front of her locker, and she keeps talking as she opens the lock. “I need to lose 15 pounds before I’m considered ‘skinny’ based off of my height.”

       “There's underweight, healthy, overweight, and obese.” She stuffs something into her bag and shuts the locker. “If you’re trying to be ‘skinny’, then that means you’re currently in the ‘healthy’ category. Which means we’re going to McDonald’s today.”

       “Fine.”  _ Nice, no arguments today. Plus, a burger! _

__ She broods as we walk in silence to our next class, until we start to approach a group, circled around something. There’s some yelling and gasping, and it sounds like someone’s throwing--

       “Looks like a fight,” She observes.

       “Yeah.” We close the distance between us and the perceived violence, and I recognize a voice, but not the sound it’s forming.

       “ _ Oof!” _

__ I part my way through the crowd with a shameful smile on my face, and feast my eyes on the mid-day gift. Schmidt lay face-up on the floor, propped up on his elbows, with a bloody nose and lip. His face is flushed and he’s sweating and panting, but something was off. It was him, yeah, but… he wasn’t winning the fight. I look to the same figure he’s looking at with fear in his eyes, and I’m met with long, shoulder length hair, covering everything but a centered sliver of his face. Grey eyes in the middle of pale skin dart at me through wet, stringy hair. 

       He parts his lips, acknowledging me, and I can’t help but picture the cigarette that I drew between the same pair of open lips only hours ago. _ So you took my suggestion, huh, Stevie? _

       Schmidt forces me to look at him when he starts yelling, and when I look back, James is gone. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Rogers!”

       Small arms start to pull me back as the security guard jogs up and wrestles Schmidt up to his feet and away from the spectators. I must have had my mouth open, because I bite my tongue hard as I close it when another set of stronger arms pulls me again. A metallic taste coats my tongue and a deep voice comforts me from behind.

       “Don’t worry, son, you ain't in trouble.”

       I look over my shoulder and I’m met with the face of a different security guard. Short hair, brown eyes, dark skin.

      “I know, sir. Sorry about th-this.”

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone time.

I’m too nice. I volunteered to stay after today to talk to the dean about the fight between Schmidt and James, even though it wasn’t my fault. He asked me kindly, and he’s done me plenty of favors, so I couldn’t say no. Now, I gotta walk home in the dark, because the sun is gone as early as 5:30 p.m.  
I have a ton of homework to do, too. I have to read the next chapter for all the classes I had tests in, and for English, I need to review for that test, since it thankfully) didn't fall on the same day as the rest did. I hate tests for English. It's essentially a handful of multiple choice questions with an essay. I'm not gonna go as far as saying that I'm one of those people that prefers math over English because it has a definite answer while English doesn't, but I see their point. I have the confidence to take one of many answers and argue it until it’s deemed correct, but I feel like I never have the confidence to find one right answer amongst 14,000,605 wrong ones.  
“Do you always talk to yourself?”  
“Jesus Chr--”  
I turn around to see a round figure. Shoulder-length dark hair, black puffer jacket, baggy pants but fitted around the ankle. “Didn't mean to spook you.”  
“Yeah, I--” This isn't how I imagined meeting you, James, “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it, um…”  
He saunters up to my side. He smells like smoke and metal. “You live far?”  
“Uh, about 7 blocks. Why?”  
He sips his jacket up a bit more. “Then we have time to talk.”   
Oh. “Oh.”  
“I beat his ass because he called you a fag to one of his friends. I don't tolerate that.” He spoke as if he were scorning me. He’s cold.  
“I-- you didn't have to do that.” I really wish you didn't.  
“You’d rather live while being called that?”  
“Not if the expense is so high.”  
“You didn't have to pay anything. There's no cost, Stevie.”  
Stevie? Ew. Is he one of those guys? “Well, I appreciate it, but please don’t get yourself into trouble again.” I look right at him for the first time. “I can handle myself.”  
He glances down at me, but only for a moment. He didn't really make any eye contact. “Yeah.”  
It’s deathly quiet. I hate it, oh, I hate it. I wish I were one of those people who enjoyed the sound of snow crunching. Right now, it’s too similar to the sound of my bones breaking under the pressure of my anxiety.  
“You wanna smoke?” The click of a lighter, the hiss of his breath as he inhales.  
“I don’t, no.”  
Hiss… crackle… hiss… crackle. 15 minutes of smoking in silence before we end at my house.  
“Um, this is my place.” Ew, place? Did I just say that?  
“See you soon, Stevie.”  
“Uh. Alright, James.  
He waits a moment too long before responding. I think he may not have heard me. “Bucky.”   
And off he went, smoke plumes and the sound of chafing puffer jacket.  
~+~+~  
“...take one of many answers and argue it until it’s deemed correct, but I feel like I never have the confidence to find one right answer amongst 14,000,605 wrong ones…”  
“Do you always talk to yourself?”  
“Jesus Chr--”  
Knew it. There was no way he’d say the full name. Cute. Lots of potential, oh, lots. “Didn’t mean to spook you.” I finger a cigarette in my pocket.  
He stutters. “It’s alright, don’t worry about it.”  
I get a little closer to him. He smells real warm. Good warm, like whiskey warm. Not summer warm. Fuck summer warm. “You live far?”  
“About 7 blocks. Why?”  
“So we’ll have time to talk.” I continue to fuck around with the cigarette in my pocket. “I beat his ass because he called you a fag to one of his friends. I don’t tolerate that.” Alright, Stevie. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.  
“You didn't have to do that.”  
Bingo. You're mine, Stevie. “Aw, come on. You’d rather live after being called that?”  
“Not if the expense is so high.” This time, he talks a bit more comfortably. He’s warming up to me, too.  
“You didn't have to pay anything. There’s no cost, Stevie.”  
Yeah, I know that look. And I know why you’re making that look, Stevie-- to hide the real look. The look of oh, shit, I like that.  
He puffs out his chest. He's got some nice little titties on him. “Well, I appreciate that, but please don’t get yourself into trouble again. I can handle myself.”  
Yeah, right. “You wanna smoke?”  
“I don’t, no.”  
I light up. My lighter makes a pretty little reflection in his eyes. The blue color made my flame cooler.  
I was almost completely right about him. Kind, doesn’t swear, won’t even use his name in vain. Tries to be strong, helpful but needs no help. Terrible at hiding his actual emotions and thoughts. Probably lies to himself all the time, too.  
He’s perfect.  
“This is my place.” Damn, didn't know we were on a date. ‘Place?’  
“See you soon… Stevie.”  
“Alright, James.”  
I think he’s earned the right. “Bucky.”


	4. The Winter Student

   I push into the bruise on my face harder and harder. My eye stings itself, and coats in water. I hear myself laughing, and some of the pressure is relieved. I feel the bone under my skin, and after poking it and yelping, I stop. Too much, too much. Not yet.

  “James, get your ass downstairs! Time to fuckin’ go!”

  “Hey _ , fuck off! _ ” I hear my voice echo down the stairs in return.

  I look back to the mirror, and my eye’s already started turning red. I rub my other eye to help it match. I’d rather look like I was crying than suffering from an allergic reaction.

  I grab my shit and go downstairs. Rebecca’s downstairs waiting.

  “I’m late.”

  “Mmn.”

  She pushes herself off of the wall. “You were crying.”

  “Fuck off.”

  She slams the door shut. We get into her car, and everything is cold. The car spits til it livens up, and we silently start off to the school.

  “Wanna spend less time in the car with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Drop me off at the 7/11, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  She looks at me. “What are you planning, Buck?”

  “Don’t fucking call me that.”

  She felt the sting of my stab, and let me get away with it. She knows what that means to me. Dad called me that. I'm technically a junior, but Buchanan was his middle name, not his first, so I guess it doesn't count. He's the only person I’d ever be okay with being the junior to.

  She doesn't respond after that. Instead, she pulls into the 7/11 parking lot that’s so beat up from travel that it's practically gravel. She skids to a stop, dramatically puts the car in park, and then turns to me in her seat, eyeing me.

  I eye her back.

  “Well?”

  I get out of the car. She drives off, and I’m presented with a lovely winter scene: her shitty little car chugging pollution out of its ass as it drives down a frosted-gray road, driving through already-made tire tracks and spewing slush onto the curb; the laundromat and the gas station packed with people sheltering from the cold, the interiors topped with snow and people topped with blush; and glorious, snowy silence once the red light down the road flashes.

  I love winter. When the weather forces everyone inside, they can't contribute to the noise, and somehow, even though snowflakes are so, so small, it's quiet enough to hear them fall. Or maybe, that sound is the wind, carrying echoes of far-away insects, hidden in the un-wintered alcoves of New York.

  I feel terrible interrupting this scene out of a modern western movie, but this is the most peaceful part of my day. Bob Ross was right: trees can't hurt you. If I at least block the sound of my feet crushing the perfectly laid snow, I’ll feel a little better.

  I slide my earbuds in, press shuffle, and heavy drums fill my senses.  _ Why Bother? _ , by Weezer, the Pinkerton album. Only album worth anything.

_ I know I should get next to you _

_ You got a look, that made me think ‘oh, cool’ _

_     But it’s just sexual attraction _

_     It’s nothin’ real, so I better keep whackin’! _

 

_     Why bother? It’s gonna hurt me _

_      It’s gonna kill when you desert me _

_     This happened to me twice before _

_     It won’t happen to me any more _

  
__ I laugh a little to myself. Yeah, I hope so.


End file.
